


Sharpe’s Swan

by Tanaqui



Category: Sharpe (TV)
Genre: Community: spook_me, Gen, Shapeshifting, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8387620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: On a mission into disputed territory in Northern Spain, Sharpe and the Chosen Men meet up with a most unusual guide.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon and the creature prompt "shapeshifter", with one of my [picture prompts](http://s879.photobucket.com/user/spook_me/media/Spook%20Me%202016/016-amazing-illustrations-alice-duke_zpse7elupr6.jpg.html) inspiring the choice of shapeshifted form. Thanks to Scribbler for cheerleading and for the beta.

“We’re lost, aren’t we, sir?”

Sharpe, frowning at the map in his hands and trying, in the fading light, to make the marks on the paper match with the dusty landscape around them, did his best to ignore Harper’s quiet question at his shoulder. A _proper_ officer would have put away the map, declared he knew exactly where they were, and confidently led them on, probably to a bad end. Sharpe wasn’t a proper officer, though, which was why Hogan had entrusted him with this mission, and he and Harper had fought side by side for long enough that he knew Harper didn’t want the _proper_ response, but the one that would get them back to camp in one piece.

Even as he opened his mouth to admit he had no bloody clue where they were supposed to go next, Harper caught his arm. “Look, sir!”

Sharpe crumpled the map together and, reaching for his rifle, scanned the ground ahead of them, looking for whatever had produced Harper’s urgent whisper. The track they were on dropped down through a series of rocky outcrops to a ford across a small river that meandered its way along the valley bottom. On the far side rose a line of hills, none of which showed the distinctive shape that he’d been promised would help them find the partisan guide who was supposed to meet them and make sure they took the right turning off the track to get them to their destination.

There was no sign of movement in the direction Harper’s gaze was fixed, except for—.

A large white swan, serenely gliding out from the cover of the reeds and scrubby trees that lined the river bank, its white feathers almost ghostly in the gathering dusk.

Next to him, Harper breathed, “She’s beautiful…”

Already irritated by his own uncertainty over which direction to take once they crossed the river, Sharpe shoved Harper’s hand off his arm. “Give over, sergeant. It’s only a bloody bird.” A thought occurred to him and he began to raise his rifle. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever tasted roast swan, have you, Harper?”

“Sir, you wouldn’t!” Harper swiftly brought his hand up and forced the barrel of Sharpe’s rifle down. The noise and movement must have disturbed the swan; with a powerful beat of its wings and much splashing, it suddenly took flight, disappearing around the bend of the river.

Sharpe glared at Harper and then relaxed. No point getting at odds over a damn bird. Pulling his rifle away from Harper’s grip, he announced to the rest of the men, now coming up behind, “We’ll make camp on the other side of the river.” Maybe in the morning, with better light, he’d be able to pick out their route. 

Carefully refolding the creased map, he stowed it away and was about to set off down the track to the river when the crack of a twig halfway up the slope to their left had the whole group swinging their rifles in the direction of the noise.

There was a long silence. Harper murmured in his ear, “Just a bird, sir…?”

Sharpe shook his head. Some sixth sense—the unnatural stillness around him—told him someone was there, lurking behind the branches. “Show yourself!” he called.

Again, there was silence. He cocked his rifle, the click loud. A moment later, a figure stepped out from the shelter of the scrub, hands raised.

Sharpe’s heart leaped to his throat: _Teresa?_ Then, as the woman took a pace down the slope toward them, he saw she moved and held herself differently, though she was dressed like a partisan and, like Teresa, carried a pistol. 

Still with his finger on the trigger, he asked suspiciously, “Are you our guide? To show us the turning to Ribadavia?” Wouldn’t be the first time Hogan had failed to mention his agent was a woman.

“I am Aleta.” A trace of a Spanish accent. “You are Lieutenant…?” She hesitated, her gaze flicking briefly to Harper at Sharpe’s shoulder before settling back on Sharpe’s face.

“Sharpe,” he supplied, lowering his rifle and carefully uncocking it, aware that the Chosen Men behind him were still scanning the surrounding rocks for signs of ambush. He nodded his head in Harper’s direction, aware that Harper was standing with his rifle held loosely in his hands and his mouth hanging open. “This is Sergeant Harper.”

Again, the woman glanced in Harper’s direction and gave him a nod of acknowledgment, her face softening into a smile that might have been approval.

Sharpe cleared his throat, drawing the woman’s attention back to him. The distrustful expression settled back on her face as she regarded him. Feeling as if he wasn’t quite in control of the situation, he suppressed the urge to elbow Harper in the ribs to snap him out of his daze, and instead grumbled, “I thought you were meeting us across the river.”

“Is this not a good place to meet?” She lowered her hands slowly and advanced down the slope towards them, Close to, she wasn’t exactly pretty—too tall and thin and angular for Sharpe’s taste, with a long nose and a long neck—but she carried herself like a queen, and her dark eyes met his in steady challenge.

“You’ll get your feet wet twice for no good reason?” he offered, still uneasy, though that might be as much from her manner as from any real threat.

She laughed softly. “That is not a problem.” Glancing down, he saw she was wearing tall black boots with cuffs that could be turned up to protect her knees. “The water is not deep.”

Turning away, she made for the water’s edge. Shrugging aside his doubts, Sharpe made to follow. After a couple of paces, he realized Harper hadn’t moved. Swinging back, he saw Harper was still rooted to the spot, staring after the woman slack-jawed.

“Sergeant Harper!” Sharpe barked.

Harper gave a start and then shook himself. “Yes, sir.” Shouldering his rifle, he broke into a trot and passed Sharpe, catching up with the woman as she made her way out into the stream. She half turned, her hands coming up as if to defend herself, and then relaxed and let her hands drop when she saw who it was.

As she had promised, the water was not deep, though still high enough to come over the tops of their boots. Soon enough, however, Sharpe was gratefully stretching out his damp legs towards a fine campfire, kindled by Hagman and Perkins while Harris and Cooper stood guard. 

The whole time they’d been making camp, Aleta had sat a few yards away, legs folded underneath her, watching them with a wary expression on her face.

“Come and share the fire.” Sharpe gestured to the ground next to him and gave her an encouraging smile.

Aleta tilted her head slightly. “Would you have me roasted?”

Harper, busying himself with brewing tea on the far side of the fire from Sharpe, laughed. “Just having you warmed up, miss. It’s a cold night.”

She hesitated for a second longer, before climbing to her feet and, ignoring the space next to Sharpe, settled herself beside Harper and cautiously held out her hands to the flames.

Sharpe regarded her with narrowed eyes, still sensing that something about her wasn’t quite as it should be. Something beyond her chilly rejection of his attempts to be friendly. What mostly bothered him—though Teresa would have laughed at him for thinking it—was that she was out here alone. Accepting the mug of tea Harper handed to him, he cleared his throat. “They tell me these hills are very dangerous. Lots of bad men around. Frenchies, bandits…. Aren’t you afraid?”

She gave a slight shiver, but her voice was steady when she spoke. “It does not trouble me. I take care of myself.”

“Tea, miss?” Harper held out another mug—his own mug, Sharpe noted—for her to take. She made a movement as if she was going to refuse it but, catching Sharpe’s eye again, seemed to change her mind and instead accepted it gingerly. Turning it around in her hands, she peered at the contents with a doubtful expression.

Hagman, leaning forward and holding out his own mug for Harper to fill, gave her an reassuring nod. “Sergeant Harper makes a fine brew, miss.” He raised his filled mug in salute to both of them.

Aleta sniffed at the mug and wrinkled her nose, before setting it down next to Harper untouched.

“Something to eat, miss?” Harper held out some of the beef he carried.

Sharpe felt a flash of annoyance. She was an ally, not a damn foundling, and he knew—from the time he’d been forced to act as company quartermaster—that it was usually their Spanish ‘friends’ dragging their feet over supplying the contracted provisions that lay behind the whole camp spending days, if not weeks, on short rations every few months. Last time had been only a fortnight ago, for God’s sake! “You’re going to need that to keep your own strength up, sergeant!” he snapped.

Again, Aleta shot Sharpe a wary look, before turning a smile on Harper. “Thank you, sergeant, but I am not hungry. I have eaten before I met with you.”

Harper looked disappointed, but took the beef back and popped it into his own mouth. He still had his eyes fixed on Aleta when, evidently feeling the heat of the fire, she tugged at the scarf wrapped around her shoulders, loosening enough it to reveal the pale skin of her long neck. Something even paler caught the light of the fire, ghostly white against the dark leather of her jerkin. Harper leaned forward for a closer inspection. “Is that a swan’s feather?”

Aleta put her hand up to her neck, drawing the scarf back over the feather and giving Harper an unfriendly look. “Yes.” Her tone was clipped.

Harper, apparently undeterred, went on grinning at her. “We saw a mighty fine swan right before we met you, miss. Did you see it, too?”

Again, she hesitated— _why?_ Sharpe wondered—before she answered. “Yes. The swan was here.” As if sensing Sharpe’s gaze and his own uneasiness, she added stiffly, “The birds often drop their feathers. I like to carry one with me, to remind me of… who I am and where I come from.”

Hagman slurped his tea noisily. “You’re from around here, miss?”

“Here abouts.” She looked around her as if distracted, and then got to her feet so suddenly that it made Sharpe jump. “I must—.” Without finishing the sentence, she turned on her heel and hurried away. Gone to answer a call of nature, Sharpe supposed.

Finishing up his tea, he pulled his greatcoat more tightly around his shoulders. It was fully dark now and a cold wind had picked up, tugging at his hair and running an icy finger across the back of the neck. A fierce gust rattled the twigs in the bushes and, for a moment, it was all he could hear, drowning out even the hiss and crackle of the fire and Harper softly singing to himself as he tended it. Then the wind died away and there was a sudden stillness. Sharpe’s neck prickled as if he were being watched, and he swung round quickly—but nothing revealed itself to his firelight-blinded eyes beyond the indistinct shapes of the thicket at his back.

Settling down again, cursing himself for a fool, yet still uneasy, he barked, “Hagman, Perkins, relieve Harris and Cooper. And keep a sharp eye out.”

Harper was now watching him anxiously across the fire as Hagman and Perkins, wolfing down their last bites of food, scrambled to their feet. “Trouble, sir?”

“Isn’t there always?” Sharpe picked up a twig lying next to him and threw it viciously into the flames. “Hogan told me it would be a nice easy run, which probably means the place is crawling with Frenchies. If it’s such an easy run, why does this courier we’re going to meet need an escort? And why send us?” He glanced up at Harris and Cooper as they loomed up into the firelight. A _proper_ officer would keep his doubts to himself. With a snort, he hurled another twig into the fire and watched it flare up. “We always get the lousy jobs no one else will touch with a pikestaff.”

“That’s because you’re so good at getting them done, sir.” Harper held out his hand for Cooper’s mug so he could fill it with the tea he’d been keeping hot. He turned to look at Sharpe and his grin softened into a smile. “You get a bit of sleep, sir, and I’ll keep an eye out for both of us. I’m sure things will look better in the morning.”

It was good advice. About getting some rest, at any rate; Sharpe doubted daylight would improve his temper. 

Still cursing Hogan under his breath, he stretched himself out, feet to the fire, shifting and shifting to try and find a comfortable spot on the hard ground. “And you keep an eye on our friendly guide,” he ordered, checking his sword and rifle were ready to hand. Remembering the way Harper had looked at Aleta, and his own lingering uneasiness, he added gruffly in the direction of Cooper and Harris. “And you two keep an eye on _him_. Where is the damn woman, anyway?” She’d been gone plenty long enough to do her business three times over.

“I’m sure she’s—.” 

Harper didn’t get to finish: his words were cut short by a distant hoot that to Sharpe’s ears resembled nothing so much as a blast by a tone-deaf and out-of-breath bugler. It was quickly followed by a half dozen more hoots, each growing louder and seemingly closer. Sharpe sat bolt upright, his hands reaching for his rifle and his heart hammering in his chest. He wasn’t one to jump at every yelp of a hunting animal or squeal of its dying prey, but the sounds he was hearing now were unearthly, there was no other word for it, and he could almost have sworn there were words in them.

As abruptly as they had begun, the noises stopped. Sharpe let out a breath, trying to calm his racing heart—and the next moment, a huge ghostly shape appeared out of the dark above him. It swooped down over the fire, fanning the flames and sending sparks wheeling up in the sky, and then it was gone. In the sudden glare, Sharpe caught a glimpse of blue cloth and a gleam of braid—a damned Frenchie!

He let out a warning cry, already shifting to his knees and readying his rifle. The others leaped to their feet and swung around to meet the enemy while pistol shots cracked past them from out of the darkness. Taking aim, Sharpe felled the French soldier he’d first seen as he rushed towards the fire. Amid the cacophony of clashing metal and crackle of gunfire, he fumbled to reload as quickly as he could. At a best guess, the attacking party was at least twice their size, though Harris had already clubbed another of the French and Harper had fired at something past Sharpe’s right shoulder that had fallen with a heavy squelch.

Even as his fingers were busy with powder and shot, Sharpe’s mind raced. How the hell did they get so close? How did they find us? That bloody woman…! She led them here.

Frantically searching for new targets in the gloom beyond the firelight, he pushed a bullet into the barrel of his rifle. Beyond Harper, kneeling not quite opposite, he saw a figure loom up, rifle aimed squarely at Harper’s back, finger on the trigger. Everything seemed to slow—his own hands lifting his rifle to knock its butt against the hard earth and drive the bullet down; his voice, jamming in his throat as his mouth struggled to form a warning cry—and then the Frenchman jerked forward, rifle flying sideways, and crashed spreadeagled onto his face.

Harper whirled around at the sound, half on his feet and with his rifle held like a staff to fend off an attack. Out of the darkness behind where the French soldier had stood, another figure stepped forward, pistol in hand.

Sharpe let out the breath that had been choking in his throat, his warning cry dying before he could utter it, as he recognised Aleta. He had his rifle to his shoulder now and instinctively pulled his aim wider, looking for another target on the edge of his vision. Even as he did so, he became aware that the noise of the attack had fallen away. Seconds later, Hagman and Perkins stumbled into view, Hagman with blood oozing from a gash on his forehead and Perkins clutching his throat and wheezing. Sharpe guessed they’d been jumped from behind, while the rest of the French patrol had crept between them.

“Everyone all right?” he rasped, pushing to his feet. A series of ayes came from everyone except Harper, who was still on one knee, staring up at Aleta. She stepped forward and reached out her free hand to help him up.

“And where the hell did you get to?” Sharpe snarled at her, not entirely convinced she hadn’t led the French on to them somehow, for all she’d saved Harper’s life.

She looked past Harper, meeting Sharpe’s furious stare with a disdainful expression. “I was uneasy. I went to a high place to look and saw these men, creeping….”

“And you didn’t think to bloody warn us?” Sharpe knew he was being unfair, but he’d come far too close to losing half—or all—the Chosen Men for him to be reasonable.

Aleta gave a sulky shrug. “I did my best. Did you not hear the bird call? And you are all alive, are you not?”

Sharpe stared at her, dumbfounded. _That_ was her idea of a warning?

“That was you, Miss Aleta?” Harper, still holding Aleta’s hand, shook his head in admiration. “I thought it was someone had put up that swan we saw earlier, so I did. Could’ve sworn we saw it swoop down on us right before the attack. But—.”

Sharpe could’ve sworn he’d seen that as well, now he’d had time to make sense of that ghostly shape—though if Aleta had been the one imitating the bird, that made no sense. The whole damn thing made no sense. 

He growled and shook his head, in no mood for riddles or mysteries. She did have a point that they _were_ all still in one piece, apart from a few minor scratches, and he wanted to keep them that way.

“Harper, stop holding hands and take a sweep to the west. I’ll take the east side. Perkins, see to that wound on Hagman’s head. Cooper and Harris, get rid of those bodies. And you,” he fixed Aleta with a glare, “sit down and shut up and don’t you move until I say so.”

oOo

They found no more signs of the enemy, but the night passed uneasily, with all of them taking turn and turn about to keep guard. The morning came at last, reluctantly, under heavy clouds that promised rain before the end of the day.

Shaking off his greatcoat, which had provided little protection against the cold and damp striking up from the stony ground, Sharpe sat up and ran his eye over the camp. Everything looked to be in order. Harper was, once again, presiding over the morning brew. Cooper and Harris were finishing breakfast. To one side, he could see the tip of Hagman’s rifle as he kept watch; a look over his shoulder in the other direction showed him a glimpse of Perkins’ cap. Aleta was still with them, perched on the same rock she’d been sitting on the night before, almost as if she hadn’t moved or slept, though her gaze constantly flicked around the camp, as if expecting trouble.

Sipping at the mug of tea had Harper provided before he doused the fire, Sharpe watched as his sergeant used a few crumbs of hard tack to tempt some of the small sparrow-like birds flitting around the camp. Before long—maybe there was some truth, after all, in the saying that the Irish could charm the birds from the trees—Harper had one of them perched on his hand, lightly stroking it with a careful finger and crooning quietly to it.

Glancing across at Aleta, Sharpe saw she had grown still and was now watching Harper intently, almost as if he had charmed her along with the sparrow. 

“Are you fond of birds, sergeant?” She sounded almost awed.

“Oh yes, miss.” Harper still had his gaze fixed on the bird as he gentled it. “There’s nothing so grand as a bird, you see. Any bird. Even a plain little bird like this. They’re all beautiful to me.”

“Would you make a pet of it, then?” Sharpe could hear a touch of disapproval in her tone now.

Harper shook his head carefully. “Oh no, miss. You can’t put a bird like this in a cage, and you shouldn’t try.” The bird tilted its head, almost as if it was paying attention to his words. “A bird that was born caged is one thing, but a wild bird? It would be cruel to keep it behind bars, no matter how sweet its song or fine its feathers.” With a regretful sigh, he lifted his hands, urging the bird to fly upwards. It landed on a bush a few feet away and twittered at him for a moment, before taking off again and circling and soaring away. He turned to face Aleta. “Are you fond of birds, too, miss?”

She hesitated, clearly pondering her answer. At last, she said, “I am fond of men who are fond of birds, sergeant.”

Harper kept his gaze on her, with almost the same expression on his face as when he’d been gentling the bird. “Patrick,” he offered, a little gruffly.

“Patrick,” she echoed, with a slight dip of the head. And, then, finally, she smiled.

Sharpe sighed. Like as not, Harper would go on sitting there, with that soppy grin on his face, until a week next Wednesday if he were allowed. Throwing away the dregs of his tea, he rattled his mug as he stowed it in his pack, before pushing to his feet. “Break camp, lads! Time for our guide here to earn her keep and show us the way to Ribadavia.”

Aleta had started at the noise he made, and now she gave him a slightly uncertain look. ”Ribadavia? Yes, of course….”

Soon they were heading further into the hills, following the dusty track that ran along the valley bottom. They moved warily, now and then climbing the slopes to scout the land ahead. After a few miles, Aleta indicated a faint trail, scarcely even a goat-track, that ran up the hillside to the left. “This will shorten our journey.”

Sharpe eyed the trail suspiciously. “Looks hard going to me. Won’t it take us longer than staying on the main track?”

Aleta shrugged. “Perhaps. But it will save many miles of walking. And I think there is more chance we will meet others if we continue this way.” She gestured along the main route. “Men who would do us harm….”

Sharpe raised an eyebrow. “More French?”

“And bandits. And _paisanos_ who have no love for… soldiers of any kind.” Not waiting for his agreement, she turned away and stalked up the trail with long strides.

Sharpe huffed out a breath and reluctantly followed her. As he’d guessed, the way was worse than a goat track—in the fact, after a few hundred yards, there was no sign it was any kind of track at all—and they often had to use their hands to scramble up the roughest parts. But it did mostly keep them out of sight of the main track in the valley bottom, and it cut directly over the tops of the the hills while the track below meandered in wide loops around their shoulders.

They were maybe another two miles on the way, puffing hard, and close to cresting another ridge, when Aleta raised her hand for them to stop. “Wait here,” she ordered. “I will scout.”

Faster than Sharpe would have credited, she whisked out of sight around an outcrop of rock.

“What’s happening, sir?” Harper, sounding as out of breath as Sharpe felt, came up next to him.

Sharpe couldn’t help wondering if they’d been led on a wild-goose chase into the middle of nowhere and that Aleta, having got them lost, was simply abandoning them, but all he said was, “She wants to scout ahead.” He glanced around at the rest of the Chosen Men struggling towards them. “As it is, I reckon we could all do with a breather.”

“Yes, s—.” Unexpectedly, Harper reached out and grabbed his arm. “Look, sir, it’s another swan!” Sharpe followed to where Harper was pointing: above the far side of the ridge, against the darkening clouds, a large white bird was moving slowly away from them with heavy wingbeats. “A queer kind of place for a bird like that, though….”

“The whole damn country’s queer,” Sharpe muttered. 

He threw off Harper’s hand and began to turn away, but Harper was still staring after the bird.

“You know, back home, we have people who are… not always people.” Harper rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Then what are they?” Sharpe demanded, for once lacking the patience to listen to Harper’s nonsense.

“Horses, mostly. But sometimes seals and sometimes birds and sometimes other beasts.” Catching Sharpe’s confused expression, Harper added, “Pookas, they’re called. They can change. Sometimes they’re in human form and sometimes they’re animals.”

“You mean shapeshifters?” Harris had come up beside them. “Like in Ovid?”

Harper shook his head. “I don’t know about that. But there’s stories, about how they want human companionship, but they can’t stay in human form for too long.”

Sharpe snorted. “You’re saying Aleta’s one of these… these pooka creatures?”

Harper shook his head. “Perhaps. I do reckon there’s something… special about that woman, though.”

Sharpe laughed and gave him a friendly shove. “We’d noticed, Pat. We’d noticed.”

He would have put the idea from his mind entirely—Harper was a superstitious bastard at the best of times—if they hadn’t, half an hour later, while waiting for Aleta to return, seen the swan again. It circled the sky above them, before dipping down out of sight behind the hill. Barely a minute more had passed before Aleta reappeared around the corner.

Of course, the whole notion that she was also a swan was ridiculous, and it wasn’t as if he was going to confront her about it, and make a fool of himself…. Especially as Harper was making enough of a fool of himself for the both of them with the way he’d perked up at the sight of her.

“There are men guarding the road where the valley is narrow for a while,” Aleta announced abruptly once she got closer, ignoring Harper and addressing Sharpe directly. “Not French. Maybe bandits. Maybe _paisanos._ If we stay on this trail, they may see us. I do not know if they will be friendly.”

Sharpe grimaced. “Can we get past them without finding out? Without them seeing us?”

Aleta nodded. “Yes. If we cross the ridge before we come there. But there is no trail on that side.”

Sharpe bit back a comment that he didn’t think much of the trail they were already on, and simply gestured for her to lead the way. “Then we’ll cross over and keep on the other side till we’re past.”

They went on cautiously, Sharpe expecting at any moment for Aleta to lead them off the trail. When they’d gone more than a mile, and a slow mile at that, he caught up with her. “How far are these men? I would’ve thought we’d be on them by now, the time you were away.”

“I travel fast when I need to.” Aleta’s tone made it clear she wasn’t going to discuss it further. “But not far now.” She quickened her pace, moving away from him.

Sharpe plodded after her. Even though she’d already gained a dozen yards on him, he couldn’t believe she’d made it this far—and back again— in the time she’d been away. So either she was lying about there being men or… she really could turn into a bird.

He was just about to chase after her and confront her when he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, followed by a whoop of exultant laughter, the kind someone might let out if they’d just shot a rabbit. He froze for an instant, and then saw that Aleta had swung around and, with a finger to her lips, was gesturing urgently for them to turn aside up a narrow gully that ran up between the rocks to the ridge above. Signalling behind him to the rest of the company for caution and quiet, he followed after her.

Once they crested the ridge, she led them down through another gully to where a band of smoother bare rock ran the length of the ridge below the twisted outcrops that crowned the hills. Trying to make as little noise as possible, grateful there was no betraying scree, they made their way forward. At one point, they heard distant voices, but they saw no sign of anyone. When they were some way further on, Aleta turned back towards the top of the hill and led them over the ridge again.

Even as they regained the trail, it began to spit with rain. Still a little way away, but moving closer, a heavy curtain of showers was sweeping towards them.

Sharpe caught hold of Aleta’s arm. “How far to Ribadavia?”

“Maybe four hours. Maybe six.” She looked pointedly down at Sharpe’s feet, making it clear she thought they moved too slowly.

“We need shelter from that.” He pointed to the clouds. Hogan had told him it would take them the best part of a day to reach the turning where the track branched for Ribadavia once they’d crossed the river, and a half day after that to climb up to the village itself. Looked like Aleta’s route really had shortened their journey by a few hours. Since they were no longer pressed for time, he reckoned they’d all rather sit out the rain in the dry than trudge through it and arrive a day early. 

Aleta looked at the clouds and then back at Sharpe, biting her lip. At last, she said, evidently reluctantly, “There is an old farmhouse. Abandoned. Less than half a mile, though it is not on our way.”

“Close enough.” Sharpe gave her a slight shove to get her moving again.

The rain was sheeting down and the light was almost gone by the time they reached the farmhouse and climbed down towards it, but they still approached with caution. It was a small place, with only one window, one of the shutters hanging loose, and a single door. Sharpe sent Harper, Perkins and Hagman around to check out the far side, while the rest of them moved slowly along the front. Reaching the window, Sharpe peered inside, but it was too gloomy to make out much other than that the place seemed to be empty. He met Harper and the others by the door.

“Nothing, sir,” Harper confirmed.

Nodding in acknowledgment, Sharpe slowly opened the door and raked the inside with his rifle, relaxing when he saw the place really was empty apart from a drift of old leaves and twigs in the corner. The roof had partly fallen in at one end, but the rest seemed sound and dry enough. Pushing the door wide open, he strode inside and gratefully shed his sodden greatcoat and pack.

The rest of the men crowded in after him, jostling each other as they dived for the spots most likely to be out of the wind. Sharpe turned, growling at them to settle down—and saw that Aleta was still outside. He beckoned to her encouragingly. “Come on.”

She shook her head, taking a step back even as he took a pace towards her. “I can’t.” She spoke so quietly that, against the rain drumming on the roof, he saw her lips shape the words more than heard them.

“Don’t be daft!” He stood to one side, again urging her inside. “We won’t bite.” God knows, if they’d wanted to harm her, they were six against one and they’d had plenty of opportunity. Though he’d have shot any man who tried, and they all knew it.

“She can’t, sir.” It was Harper who answered, stepping up to stand next to Sharpe. “If she crosses the threshold, she’ll be caught.”

“What the blazes are you talking about, sergeant?” Sharpe turned to glare at Harper, though a part of him knew exactly what Harper was saying. He just didn’t want to believe it was true.

“She won’t be able to change, sir. If she spends even a part of a night under a man’s roof, she’ll be stuck like this.” Harper gave a slight shrug and added in a lighter tone, “Could be she’ll even end up married, though I don’t know which one of us’d be the lucky man….”

Sharpe swung back to look at Aleta, who had her gaze fixed on Harper’s face. He thought he saw her give a slight nod, before she turned and, without another word, fled into the darkness.

Sharpe made to go after her but Harper put his hand on Sharpe’s arm to hold him back. “Don’t you worry about her, sir. She’ll turn herself, and there’s no swan will mind a bit of rain like this.”

“Lovely weather for ducks,” someone—Hagman, perhaps—muttered dryly from depths of the room.

Sharpe stood where he was for a long moment, while Harper pushed the door closed and wedged it.

“Is she… is she really a shapeshifter, sergeant?” It was Perkins who asked, but Sharpe, facing the men again, reckoned from the expressions on their faces that they all wanted to know, and that they weren’t sure what answer they wanted to hear.

“I reckon so.” Harper crossed to where he’d set his own pack down and sat with his back to the wall and his legs stretched out. “She’ll be fine.” He began to rummage in his pack for his rations.

“It’s not her I’m worried about.” That was Cooper.

Puffing out an irritated breath, sensing that the whole lot of them would go frit if he didn’t get a grip on things, and soon, Sharpe snapped, “The only thing you need to worry about, Cooper, is me, and any damn Frenchies snooping around. So you can take first watch, and keep a sharp eye out.”

Cooper, who’d managed to secure the warmest, driest spot in the whole room, got to his feet with a low grumble. Pushing Cooper’s pack aside with his foot, Sharpe settled down in his place.

oOo

Sharpe was woken by the early morning sun falling on his face. Squinting against the light, he saw the door to the farmhouse had been pushed open and Harper was squatting on the threshold with his rifle propped in the crook of his arm.

He was evidently talking to someone outside. Sharpe, sitting up quietly, heard him ask, “But why did you show yourself like that when we heard you in the bushes? Why not stay a swan and just fly away?”

Aleta, then. Sharpe’s guess was confirmed when, straining to hear, he caught her reply: “Your lieutenant, he would have shot me, I think.”

“Ah, no, the lieutenant wouldn’t. He was only joking.”

“Are you sure?”

Harper didn’t answer, just hunched his shoulders a little.

A few seconds passed in silence and then Aleta said hesitantly, “Besides, sometimes… sometimes I feel alone. To be the way I am. I heard you speak, when you saw me, the other me. On the river. And I wanted….”

Harper was drawing circles in the dirt by his feet with his free hand. “It would never work.” He sounded quite sad at the prospect.

Aleta laughed softly. “I know.”

One of the other men shifted and muttered something, and Harper whipped his head around. Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, Sharpe made a pretence of yawning and stretching, as if he’d only just woken up—and then stopped when he caught Harper’s eye and knew he hadn’t fooled him for an instant. Pushing to his feet, he made his way to the door.

As he’d suspected, Aleta was sitting just outside the door, with her legs folded under her. She gave Sharpe a wary look when she caught sight of him.

“Did you hear much of that, sir?” Harper asked, low enough not to wake anyone else.

“Enough.” Sharpe fixed his gaze on Aleta. “You were never our guide, were you? The one we were supposed to meet?”

Aleta tilted her head and gave him a wry smile. “No. But I did not tell you I was, I think.”

Sharpe thought back to their first conversation. “True enough,” he admitted. He’d simply assumed.

“But I will show you the turning to Ribadavia, even so.” Aleta dipped her head in Harper’s direction. “For Patrick.”

Sharpe snorted softly, but he guessed it didn’t matter what her reasons were. He nudged Harper with his boot. “Then we’d best be getting on. Get the rest of the men up, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” Harper scrambled to his feet and turned back into the farmhouse.

Sharpe stepped outside. Aleta had also risen and taken a few paces back, as if she still didn’t trust him. He regarded her thoughtfully. “I heard you say you’re lonely. From what Harper told us, you could have a normal life, be a normal person.”

“Yes, but,” she tipped her head back and regarded the sky above them, “I would no longer have this.” Bringing her gaze back down to meet Sharpe’s, she added, “There would be no bars, but it would be a kind of cage still, I think.”

Sharpe nodded to show he understood.

Behind him, the men were stirring, cursing Harper’s efforts to rouse them. Aleta looked past him, her expression growing wary again. “I will scout the road and the track. I will not be much time.” 

Not waiting for his reply, she turned and walked around the corner of the building. A moment later, he saw the swan soaring up the hillside and turning northwards along the ridge.

By the time she returned, walking back around the corner as if she were any ordinary woman, the men were almost ready to leave. Several of them gripped their rifles more firmly when they saw her, but Sharpe put out his hand to calm them. None of them had mentioned her, but he’d seen several of them look around uneasily when they’d emerged outside. “It’s all right, lads.” He went to meet her.

“The track is clear.” She tilted her head along the valley in the direction he’d seen her fly away. “I see nothing that will be a danger.”

“Then let’s go.” Sharpe shouldered his rifle and waved for her to lead the way. “Chosen Men, fall in! Standard formation for potentially hostile country.”

There was a flurry of packs being fastened and slung on shoulders, and then they were off, Hagman and Perkins out to either side, the rest of them spread out on the main track, with Cooper and Harris swinging around every few dozen yards to scan the land behind them.

Harper cleared his throat. “I reckon I should be up front with the guide, sir….”

Sharpe lifted his eyes heavenwards but didn’t stop Harper from setting off in double time until he reached Aleta. She welcomed him with a smile as he fell in beside her. Watching from far enough back that he couldn’t eavesdrop, Sharpe saw they spoke from time to time, but were mostly silent.

Aleta set them a brisk but comfortable pace and the sun was well risen by the time she stopped by a turning off the main track. “This is the way to Ribadavia.”

Sharpe looked doubtfully at the narrow path. “You’re sure?” They’d passed three or four similar trails already.

“Yes.” She gestured at the twisted laurel tree that crouched just past the turning. “This tree….”

“Very well.” Sharpe waved to call the rest of the men in.

Aleta looked at them as they drew close, and then at Harper. “I will leave you now.”

“You could stay….” Harper was evidently trying to make light of the suggestion, but there was a note of longing in his voice.

Aleta shook her head. “No. It is better this way.”

Harper nodded, swallowing hard. “May I… may I see you change?”

Aleta gave him a long, considering look. Behind Sharpe, the rest of the men shifted uneasily, moving closer together. Then she smiled at Harper. “Yes. For you, yes.”

She took a half a dozen paces backwards, putting distance between them. Then, holding her hands down by her sides, palms out, she closed her eyes.

Nothing happened for a few seconds until, quite quickly, she seemed to shrink and lift, while a patch of bright white spread from her centre—and then suddenly there was a swan hovering in the air in front of them, its wings beating furiously enough that Sharpe could feel the force of them from a dozen yards away. 

“Bloody hell,” someone whispered behind Sharpe.

Harper stood transfixed, staring at the swan until, with a short cry, it shot upwards, almost catching him with its wings as it rose. Maybe fifty feet above them it began to turn in a wide circle, still climbing. As it passed over them again, a single white feather came dropping down. Harper, reaching out automatically, caught in his hand. Then, with another cry, the swan headed back in the direction they’d come from.

For a long moment, none of them moved. At last, Sharpe drew in a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart, and strode forward. “Come on, Harper, time to be going.”

Harper went on staring after the swan, long vanished, until Sharpe coughed pointedly. Then he looked down at the feather, lightly clasped in his palm. “Do you think we’ll ever see her again?”

Sharpe clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a slight shove to get him moving up the path. “We may, Pat. We may.”


End file.
